Still William (7 page)

CHAPTER 4

W
illiam had often been told how much happier he would be if he would follow the straight and narrow path of virtue, but so far the thought of that
happiness had left him cold. He preferred the happiness that he knew by experience to be the result of his normal wicked life to that mythical happiness that was prophesied as the result of a quite
unalluring life of righteousness. Suddenly, however, he was stirred. An ‘old boy’ had come to visit the school and had given an inspiring address to the boys in which he spoke of the
beauty and usefulness of a life of Self-denial and Service. William, for the first time, began to consider the question seriously. He realised that his life so far had not been, strictly speaking,
a life of Self-denial and Service. The ‘old boy’ said many things that impressed William. He pictured the liver of the life of Self-denial and Service surrounded by a happy, grateful
and admiring family circle. He said that everyone would love such a character. William tried to imagine his own family circle as a happy, grateful and admiring family circle. It was not an easy
task even to such a vivid imagination as William’s but it was not altogether impossible. After all, nothing was altogether impossible . . .

While the headmaster was proposing a vote of thanks to the eloquent and perspiring ‘old boy’, William was deciding that there might be something in the idea after all. When the bell
rang for the end of school, William had decided that it was worth trying at any rate. He decided to start first thing next morning – not before. William was a good organiser. He liked things
cut and dried. A new day for a new life. It was no use beginning to be self-denying and self-sacrificing in the middle of a day that had started quite differently. If you were going to have a
beautiful character and a grateful family circle you might as well start the day fresh with it, not drag it over from the day before. It would be jolly nice to have a happy, grateful and admiring
family circle, and William only hoped that if he took the trouble to be self-denying and self-sacrificing his family circle would take the trouble to be happy and grateful and admiring. There were
dark doubts about this in William’s mind. His family circle rarely did anything that was expected of them. Still, William was an optimist and – anything might happen. And tomorrow was a
whole holiday. He could give all his attention to it all day . . .

He looked forward to the new experience with feelings of pleasant anticipation. It would be interesting and jolly – meantime there was a whole half of today left and it was no use
beginning the life of self-denial and service before the scheduled time.

He joined his friends Ginger, Henry and Douglas after school and together they trespassed on the lands of the most irascible farmer they knew in the hopes of a pleasant chase. The farmer
happened to be in the market town so their hopes were disappointed as far as he was concerned. They paddled in his pond and climbed his trees and uttered defiant shouts to his infuriated dog, and
were finally chased away by his wife with a fire of hard and knobbly potatoes. One got William very nicely on the side of his head but, his head being as hard and knobbly as the potato, little
damage was done. Next they ‘scouted’ each other through the village and finally went into Ginger’s house and performed military manoeuvres in Ginger’s bedroom, till
Ginger’s mother sent them away because the room just below happened to be the drawing-room and the force of the military manoeuvres was disintegrating the ceiling and sending it down in
picturesque white flakes into Ginger’s mother’s hair.

They went next to Henry’s garden and there with much labour made a bonfire. Ginger and Douglas plied the fire with fuel; and William and Henry, with a wheelbarrow and the garden hose,
wearing old tins on their heads, impersonated the fire brigade. During the exciting scuffles that followed, the garden hose became slightly involved and finally four dripping boys fled from the
scene and from possible detection, leaving only the now swimming bonfire, the wheelbarrow and hose to mark the scene of action. A long rest in a neighbouring field in the still blazing sunshine
soon partially dried them. While reclining at ease they discussed the latest Red Indian stories which they had read, and the possibility of there being any wild animals left in England.

‘I bet there
is
,’ said Ginger earnestly. ‘They hide in the day time so’s no one’ll see ’em, an’ they come out at nights. No one goes into the
woods at night so no one knows if there is or if there isn’t, an’ I bet there
is
. Anyway, let’s get up some night ’n take our bows ’n arrows an’
look
for ’em. I bet we’d find some.’

‘Let’s tonight,’ said Douglas eagerly.

William remembered suddenly the life of virtue to which he had mentally devoted himself. He felt that the nocturnal hunting for wild animals was incompatible with it.

‘I can’t tonight,’ he said with an air of virtue.

‘Yah – you’re
’fraid
!’ taunted Henry, not because he had the least doubt of William’s courage but simply to introduce an element of excitement into the
proceedings.

He succeeded.

When finally Henry and William arose breathless and bruised from the ditch where the fight had ended, Douglas and Ginger surveyed them with dispassionate interest.

‘William won an’ you’re both in a
jolly
old mess!’

Henry removed some leaves and bits of grass from his mouth.

‘All right, you’re
not
afraid,’ he said pacifically to William, ‘when will you come huntin’ wild animals?’

William considered. He was going to give the life of virtue, of self-denial and service a fair day’s trial, but there was just the possibility that from William’s point of view it
might not be a success. It would be as well to leave the door to the old life open.

‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ he said guardedly.

‘All right. I say, let’s race to the end of the field on only one leg . . . Come on! Ready . . . One, two,
three
. . . GO!’

William awoke. It was morning. It was the morning on which he was to begin his life of self-denial and service. He raised his voice in one of his penetrating and tuneless
morning songs, then stopped abruptly, ‘case I disturb anyone’ he remarked virtuously to his brush and comb . . . His father frequently remarked that William’s early morning songs
were enough to drive a man to drink . . . He brushed his hair with unusual vigour and descended to breakfast looking (for William) unusually sleek and virtuous. His father was reading the paper in
front of the fire.

‘Good mornin’, Father,’ said William in a voice of suave politeness.

His father grunted.

‘Did you hear me not singin’ this mornin’, Father?’ said William pleasantly. It was as well that his self-denials should not be missed by the family circle.

His father did not answer. William sighed. Some family circles were different from others. It was hard to imagine his father happy and grateful and admiring. But still, he was going to have a
jolly good try . . .

His mother and sister and brother came down. William said ‘Good mornin’!’ to them all with unctuous affability. His brother looked at him suspiciously.

‘What mischief are
you
up to?’ he said ungraciously.

William merely gave him a long, silent and reproachful glance.

‘What are you going to do this morning, William dear?’ said his mother.

‘I don’ mind what I do,’ said William. ‘I jus’ want to
help
you. I’ll do anything you like, Mother.’

She looked at him anxiously.

‘Are you feeling quite well, dear?’ she said with concern.

‘If you want to
help
,’ said his sister sternly, ‘you might dig up that piece of my garden you and those other boys trampled down yesterday.’

William decided that a life of self-denial and service need not include fagging for sisters who spoke to one in that tone of voice. He pretended not to hear.

‘Can I do anything at all for you this morning, Mother dear?’ he said earnestly.

His mother looked too taken aback to reply. His father rose and folded up his newspaper.

‘Take my advice,’ he said, ‘and beware of that boy this morning. He’s up to something!’

William sighed again. Some family circles simply didn’t seem able to recognise a life of self-denial and service when they met it . . .

After breakfast he wandered into the garden. Before long Ginger, Douglas and Henry came down the road.

‘Come on, William!’ they called over the gate.

For a moment William was tempted. Somehow it seemed a terrible waste of a holiday to spend it in self-denial and service instead of in search of adventures with Ginger, Douglas and Henry. But he
put the temptation away. When he made up his mind to do a thing he did it . . .

‘Can’t come today,’ he said sternly, ‘I’m busy.’

‘Oh,
go on
!’

‘Well, I am an’ I’m just not comin’ an’ kin’ly stop throwin’ stones at our cat.’

‘Call it a cat! Thought it was an ole fur glove what someone’d thrown away!’

In furious defence of his household’s cat (whose life William in private made a misery) William leapt to the gate. The trio fled down the road. William returned to his meditations. His
father had gone to business and Ethel and Robert had gone to golf. His mother drew up the morning-room window.

‘William, darling, aren’t you going to play with your friends this morning?’

William turned to her with an expression of solemnity and earnestness.

‘I want to
help
you, Mother. I don’t wanter play with my friends.’

He felt a great satisfaction with this speech. It breathed the very spirit of self-denial and service.

‘I’ll try to find that bottle of tonic you didn’t finish after whooping cough,’ said his mother helplessly as she drew down the window.

William stared around him disconsolately. It was hard to be full of self-sacrifices and service and to find no outlet for it . . . nobody seemed to want his help. Then a brilliant idea occurred
to him. He would
do
something for each of his family – something that would be a pleasant surprise when they found out . . .

He went up to his bedroom. There in a drawer was a poem that he had found in Robert’s blotter the week before. It began:

It must be Marion Dexter. She was fair and, well, more or less young, William supposed. William didn’t know about her hair being silken. It looked just like ordinary hair
to him. But you never knew with girls. He had kept the poem in order to use it as a weapon of offence against Robert when occasion demanded. But that episode belonged to his old evil past. In his
new life of self-denial and service he wanted to
help
Robert. The poem ended:

That meant that Robert wanted to be engaged to her. Poor Robert! Perhaps he was too shy to ask her, or perhaps he’d asked her and she’d refused . . . well, it was
here that Robert needed some
help
. William, with a determined expression, set off down the road.

He knocked loudly at the door. By a lucky chance Marion Dexter came to the door herself.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said.

‘Good afternoon,’ said William in a business-like fashion. ‘Has Robert ever asked you to marry him?’

‘No. What a peculiar question to ask on the front doorstep. Do come in.’

William followed her into the drawing-room. She shut the door. They both sat down. William’s face was set and frowning.

‘He’s deep in love with you,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Marion’s eyes danced.

‘Did he send you to tell me?’

William ignored the question.

‘He’s deep in love with you and wants you to marry him.’

Marion dimpled.

‘Why can’t he ask me then?’

‘He’s shy,’ said William earnestly, ‘he’s always shy when he’s in love. He’s always awful shy with the people what he’s in love with. But he wants
most
awful
bad to marry you.
Do
marry him,
please
. Jus’ for kindness. I’m tryin’ to be kind. That’s why I’m here.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Are you sure he’s in love with me?’

‘Deep in love. Writin’ po’try an’ carryin’ on – not sleepin’ and not eatin’ an’ murmurin’ your name an’ puttin’ his hand
on his heart an’ carvin’ your initials all over the house an’ sendin’ you flowers an’ things,’ said William drawing freely on his imagination.

‘I’ve never had any flowers from him.’

‘No. They all get lost in the post,’ said William without turning a hair. ‘But he’s dyin’ slow of love for you. He’s gettin’ thinner an’ thinner.
’F you don’t be engaged to him soon he’ll be stone dead. He’ll die of love like what they do in tales an’ then you’ll probably get hung for murder.’

‘Good heavens!’ said Miss Dexter.

‘Well, I
hope
you won’t,’ said William kindly, ‘an’ I’ll do all I can to save you if you are but ’f you kill Robert with not gettin’
engaged to him prob’ly you will be.’

‘Does he know you’ve come to ask me?’ said Miss Dexter.

‘No. I want it to be a s’prise to him,’ said William.

‘It will be that,’ murmured Miss Dexter.

‘You will marry him, then?’ said William hopefully.

‘Certainly – if he wants me to.’

‘P’raps,’ said William after a slight pause, ‘you’d better write it in a letter ’cause he’d like as not, not b’lieve me.’

With eyes dancing and lips quivering with suppressed laughter Miss Dexter sat down at her writing-table.